MARIAN, THE INSPIRER.
It was not fortunate for old Mr. Willcoxen's plans that his grandson
should have met Marian Mayfield. For, on the morning of Thurston's first
meeting with the charming girl, when he turned his horse's head from the
arched gateway of Old Field Cottage and galloped off, "a haunting shape
and image gay" attended him.
It was that of beautiful Marian, with her blooming face and sunny hair,
and rounded roseate neck and bosom and arms, all softly, delicately
flushed with the pure glow of rich, luxuriant vitality, as she stood in
the sunlight, under the arch of azure morning-glories, with her graceful
arms raised in the act of binding up the vines.
At first this "image fair" was almost unthought of; he was scarcely
conscious of the haunting presence, or the life and light it gradually
diffused through his whole being. And when the revelation dawned upon
his intellect, he smiled to himself and wondered if, for the first time,
he was falling in love; and then he grew grave, and tried to banish the
dangerous thought. But when, day after day, amid all the business and
the pleasures of his life, the "shape" still pursued him, instead of
getting angry with it or growing weary of it, he opened his heart and
took it in, and made it at home, and set it upon a throne, where it
reigned supreme, diffusing delight over all his nature. But soon, too
soon, this bosom's sovereign became the despot, and stung, goaded and
urged him to see again this living, breathing, glowing, most beautiful
original. To seek her? For what? He did not even try to answer the
question.
Thus passed one week.
And then, had he been disposed to forget the beautiful girl, he could
not have done so. For everywhere where the business of his grandfather
took him--around among the neighboring planters, to the villages of
B---- or of C----, everywhere he heard of Marian, and frequently he
saw her, though at a distance, or under circumstances that made it
impossible for him, without rudeness, to address her. He both saw and
heard of her in scenes and society where he could hardly have expected
to find a young girl of her insignificant position.
Marian was a regular attendant of the Protestant church at Benedict,
where, before the morning service, she taught in the Sunday-school, and
before the afternoon service she received a class of colored children.
And Thurston, who had been a very careless and desultory attendant,
sometimes upon the Catholic chapel, sometimes upon the Protestant
church, now became a very regular frequenter of the latter place of
worship; the object of his worship being not the Creator, but the
creature, whom, if he missed from her accustomed seat, the singing, and
praying, and preaching for him lost all of its meaning, power and
spirituality. In the churchyard he sometimes tried to catch her eye and
bow to her; but he was always completely baffled in his aspirations
after a nearer communion. She was always attended from the church and
assisted into her saddle by Judge Provost, Colonel Thornton, or some
other "potent, grave and reverend seignors," who "hedged her about with
a divinity" that it was impossible, without rudeness and intrusion, to
break through. The more he was baffled and perplexed, the more eager
became his desire to cultivate her acquaintance. Had his course been
clear to woo her for his wife, it would have been easy to ask permission
of Edith to visit her at her house; but such was not the case, and
Thurston, tampering with his own integrity of purpose, rather wished
that this much coveted acquaintance should be incidental, and their
interviews seem accidental, so that he should not commit himself, or in
any way lead her to form expectations which he had no surety of being
able to meet. How long this cool and cautious foresight might avail him,
if once he were brought in close companionship with Marian, remains to
be seen. It happened one Sunday afternoon in October that he saw Marian
take leave of her venerable escort, Colonel Thornton, at the churchyard
gate, and gayly and alone turn into the forest road that led to her own
home. He immediately threw himself into his saddle and followed her,
with the assumed air of an indifferent gentleman pursuing his own path.
He overtook her near one of those gates that frequently intersect the
road. Bowing, he passed her, opened the gate, and held it open for her
passage. Marian smiled, and nodded with a pleasant:
"Good-afternoon, Mr. Willcoxen," as she went through,
Thurston closed the gate and rode on after her.
"This is glorious weather, Miss Mayfield."
"Glorious, indeed!" replied Marian.
"And the country, too, is perfectly beautiful at this season. I never
could sympathize with the poets who call autumnal days 'the melancholy
days--the saddest of the year.'"
"Nor I," said Marian; "for to me, autumn, with its refulgent skies, and
gorgeous woods, and rich harvest, and its prospect of Christmas cheer
and wintry repose has ever seemed a gay and festive season. The year's
great work is done, the harvest is gathered, enjoyment is present, and
repose at hand."
"In the world of society," said Thurston, "it is in the evening, after
the labor or the business of the day is over, that the gayest scenes of
festivity occur, just preceding the repose of sleep. So I receive your
thought of the autumn--the evening of the year, preceding the rest of
winter. Nature's year's work is done; she puts on her most gorgeous
robes, and holds a festival before she sinks to her winter's sleep."
Marian smiled brightly upon him.
"Yes; my meaning, I believe, only more pointedly expressed."
That smile--that smile! It lightened through all his nature with
electric, life-giving, spirit-realizing power, elevating and inspiring
his whole being. His face, too, was radiant with life as he answered the
maiden's smile.
But something in his eyes caused Marian's glances to fall, and the rosy
clouds to roll up over her cheeks and brow.
Then Thurston governed his countenance--let no ardent or admiring
glance escape, and when he spoke again his manner and words were more
deferential.
"We spoke of the world of nature, Miss Mayfield; but how is it with the
world of man? To many--nay, to most of the human race--autumn is the
herald of a season not of festivity and repose, but of continued labor,
and increased want and privation and suffering."
"That is because society is not in harmony with nature; man has wandered
as far from nature as from God," said Marian.
"And as much needs a Saviour to lead him back to the one as to the
other," replied Thurston.
"You know that--you feel it?" asked Marian, turning upon him one of her
soul-thrilling glances.
Thurston trembled with delicious pleasure through all his frame; but,
guarding his eyes, lest again they should frighten off her inspiring
glances, he answered, fervently:
"I know and feel it most profoundly."
And Thurston thought he spoke the very truth, though in sober fact he
had never thought or felt anything about the subject until now that
Marian, his inspirer, poured her life-giving spirit into his soul.
She spoke again, earnestly, ardently.
"You know and feel it most profoundly! That deep knowledge and that deep
feeling is the chrism oil that has anointed you a messenger and a
laborer in the cause of humanity. 'Called and chosen,' be thou also
faithful. There are many inspired, many anointed; but few are faithful!"
"Thou, then, art the high priestess that hast poured the consecrated oil
on my head. I will be faithful!"
He spoke with such sudden enthusiasm, such abandon, that it had the
effect of bringing Marian back to the moderation and _retenue_ of her
usual manner. He saw it in the changed expression of her countenance;
and what light or shade of feeling passed over that beautiful face
unmarked of him? When he spoke again it was composedly.
"You speak as the preachers and teachers preach and teach--in general
terms. Be explicit; what would you have me to do, Miss Mayfield? Only
indicate my work, and tell me how to set about the accomplishment of it,
and never knight served liege lady as I will serve you!"
Marian smiled.
"How? Oh, you must make yourself a position from which to influence
people! I do not know that I can advise you how; but you will find a
way, as--were I a man, I should!"
"Being a woman, you have done wonders!"
"For a woman," said Marian, with a glance full of archness and
merriment.
"No, no; for any one, man or woman! But your method, Marian? I beg your
pardon, Miss Mayfield," he added, with a blush of ingenuous
embarrassment.
"Nay, now," said the frank girl; "do call me Marian if that name springs
more readily from your lips than the other. Almost all persons call me
Marian, and I like it."
A rush of pleasure thrilled all through his veins; he gave her words a
meaning and a value for himself that they did not certainly possess; he
forgot that the grace extended to him was extended to all--nay, that she
had even said as much in the very words that gave it. He answered:
"And if I do, fairest Marian, shall I, too, hear my own Christian name
in music from your lips?"
"Oh, I do not know," said the beautiful girl, laughing and blushing. "If
it ever comes naturally, perhaps; certainly not now. Why, the venerable
Colonel Thornton calls me 'Marian,' but it never comes to me to call him
'John!'"